by Chris Bunch
‘As the cliché goes,’ Wolfe said, ‘what you see is what you get.’
‘But perhaps not everyone sees you the same.’
Wolfe nodded his head a bare inch.
‘My specific objection to student Ware,’ Acosta said, ‘was she was more interested in self-advancement than learning. By that I mean she was the sort who’d come up with a flashy explanation for a series of events to attract the greatest attention, rather than spending any amount of time thinking about the events she’d observed before theorizing.
‘I would expect, if she’d lived, she would have become a sudden wonder in the Federation, publishing some book that would neatly explain why men don’t get along with women, or why women should do without men, or something of that sort.’
‘Was she any good at photography?’
‘Who knows? She was such a snoop, always looking after other people’s business, that I thought Mikela . . . that’s Scholar Tregeagle . . . assigned her those duties to keep her busy. You know, I caught her going through my files once, although she said she was just looking for a paper I’d written on Al’ar life-patterns. But after I told her to get out of my office I found she was prying into my personal fiches, which I keep well-guarded, I might add.
‘I always wondered who else’s secrets she tried to pry into. If she’d died some other way, say a mysterious fall down in the caves, well, I don’t know what I might be thinking.
‘I suppose there’s a bit of validity to the notion a psychologist isn’t much better than a nosy-one at best, but she took things to an extreme.’
Something Acosta had said earlier struck Wolfe.
‘A couple of minutes ago you used two unusual examples of what Ware might write about in the future, why men don’t get along with women, or why they should do without men. Were those deliberately chosen?’
‘No,’ Acosta said quickly. ‘They merely jumped to mind. But after all, do men get along with women? What’s your feeling on the matter?’
Wolfe didn’t answer, but kept his gaze on the psychologist. Her eyes met his, darted away.
‘Yes, I lied about Lorn Ware,’ Mikela Tregeagle said, sounding undisturbed. ‘I certainly would have sent her home on the next resupply ship, and the evaluation I’d send to her department head at Univee would not have been good.
‘I lied because she is dead, and her father . . . he’s a widower, by the way . . . should be allowed to mourn his daughter without any qualifications. De mortuis nil, and all that.’
‘What were her problems?’
‘Mister Wolfe, I don’t see why you’re so interested in Lorn Ware’s character or lack of same. I should think you’d restrict your inquiry into the accident that killed her, and, speaking personally, I wish you’d put in a request for more safety equipment for our team, to prevent further occurrences of this nature.
‘We should be able to conduct all testing, all exploration of this base without human involvement, but we only have that single mole.
‘Heaven knows what sort of boobytraps the Al’ar could have set down there, that’re still armed and waiting.’
‘That’s a valid concern,’ Wolfe said. He’d almost died a dozen times coming too close to alien leave-behind death devices. ‘But, to be honest, I was asked to provide full details about this person. I’m not sure, but I think my company is considering involving itself more closely in these expeditions from the outset.
‘I suspect they feel accidents are as much made as just happen.’
‘What, the old evil saw that people determine their own fate?’ Tregeagle said. ‘Leave it to an insurance company to drag that one up.’
Wolfe shrugged. ‘I’m not even their full-time employee, Scholar Tregeagle. Just a day laborer.’
‘Scholar . . . poo,’ Tregeagle said, and her brilliant smile came. ‘Some of us . . . like Scholar Acosta . . . love titles more than we perhaps should. I don’t care. Call me Mikela.’
‘Certainly,’ Wolfe said. ‘Would you mind being a bit more specific about Ware’s failings?’
‘If you don’t attribute them to me, I shall. First she was extraordinarily ambitious, to the point I felt she’d do whatever was necessary to advance her career.’
‘You’re not the first to tell me that.’
‘I’m hardly surprised you already knew that,’ Tregeagle said. ‘It was patently obvious to almost everyone.’
‘I’d guess Dov Cherney wouldn’t be part of that almost everyone.’
‘No,’ Tregeagle said. ‘No, he wouldn’t. What she did, or perhaps tried to do to him, is an example of my second criticism of Lorn. She wanted everyone to like . . . perhaps love her.
‘She was willing to go to any extreme to make that happen.’
‘Cherney told me she just used him as a confessional. He wanted more, but didn’t get it, he said.’
‘Well, if Dov told you that, I’ll choose to believe him. Why not? The truth wouldn’t matter anyway.’ Tregeagle sighed. ‘Poor Dov. He surely deserved . . . deserves . . . better. Personally, I’ll put what Lorn did to him as another reason to dislike her.’
‘It takes two to make a relationship,’ Wolfe suggested. ‘If she didn’t want to play, that doesn’t make her a villain.’
Mikela’s eyes took his, held them for an instant. Then her smile came again. ‘Of course not,’ she murmured.
‘Were there any complaints about Ware prying into other people’s business?’
Tregeagle looked startled.
‘No,’ she said emphatically. ‘Why? Has anyone . . .’
‘Just a standard question,’ Wolfe reassured her smoothly.
Expedition custom, Wolfe learned, was to stay up as late as you could, for Five’s night was almost endless.
He waited in the cleaned-out store-room he’d been given for a sleeping chamber until his timesend read 2700 hours, then slipped out into the dimly-lit corridor. The base was silent except for the hum of humidifiers, heaters, and the bedroom corridors were closed.
Wolfe carried a towel and soap container as a support for a possible thin alibi that he was looking for the refresher and couldn’t find it.
He stopped at one door, hearing the groans of someone deep in a nightmare, noted the nameplate - Northover, the electronics specialist - for a possible inquiry into the nature of dreams, went on.
Ware’s room was locked. Joshua took a flat finger-sized bit of plas from a pocket, held it to the keyhole, fingered a sensor. The pick vibrated in his hand, and the lock opened.
He went in, slid the door closed, touched the light sensor. The room was a near-duplicate of his - folding bed, desk, book/fiche case, keyboard and screen, and a partial ‘fresher in an alcove. The room had been stripped bare, and Ware’s possessions were in a case and a metal-bound trunk on the bed. Both were sealed with straps.
Joshua selected the trunk, and took a small case from his pocket. He took a pair of tiny snips from it, cut through the metal as if it were paper.
The trunk held what he wanted - fiches, a few battered books, and Ware’s papers. He riffled through them like the professional thief he’d been trained as, set some aside for immediate attention, others for later investigation.
Two hours later, he had something interesting. It was an expensive leather book, inscribed, in masculine handwriting: To Lorn
I wish I could be there with you, but I can’t, so write about everything so you won’t forget to tell me everything. Love you
Da
The diary’s paper was rich-feeling, hand-laid. Wolfe leafed through it, scanning entries. The first dozen or so pages were filled with careful handwriting, obediently listing everything that happened to Lorn Ware on her arrival on Five. Then the entries grew less and less, made days apart.
Joshua half-smiled. She was no better at a journal than he was. He turned a few pages, and stopped. Pages had been roughly torn from the book, more than a dozen of them.
He held the book up to the light sideways, saw the dent of writing on the un
ripped pages.
Amateur night, he thought. Destroying the whole book would’ve been a lot -
The door smashed open and Dov Cherney was on him, swinging a torque bar nearly a meter long.
Wolfe rolled sideways, and the bar crashed into Ware’s trunk. Joshua snap-kicked to his feet as Cherney whipped the bar sideways at his waist.
Joshua’s hand blurred, and he had the burly man’s wrist in one hand, and the bar spun out of Cherney’s grip. Wolfe’s hand twisted, and the sound of the bone snapping was loud in the small room.
Cherney screamed and Joshua stepped into him, back-handed a knuckle-strike to the man’s forehead and smashed back against the wall.
Joshua recovered as Cherney collapsed half-on, half-off the bed.
Moments later, there were people in the doorway. One was Frazier. Just behind him was Scholar Acosta.
‘Put him somewhere safe,’ Wolfe ordered. ‘And have everyone assembled in the messhall in an hour.
‘It’s time for a chat.’
The signal had come two weeks earlier. Wolfe had finished a moderately nasty piece of business on Vavasour IX involving a man who’d run away from his wife with his company’s assets and his teenaged stepdaughter.
The Grayle hummed through N-space, and Wolfe drowsed over a battered book. He was considering his penthouse on Carlton VI, the dry shudder of the martini he seldom allowed himself when he was operational, the raw beef seasoned with olive oil, capers and cheese, and what sort of Armagnac he’d finish the meal with.
He next thought about the company he might choose on that night, but set that aside. Carlton VI was still too far away for indulgences like that.
The com buzzed.
Wolfe set the book aside, went out of the master cabin, up steps to the bridge.
He studied the symbols on the screen, touched sensors. After a time the screen cleared, then read: CALL TO BE RETURNED IN ONE E-HOUR. STAND BY.
Joshua went to the galley. He dropped a brownish chunk from one freezer into a stone bowl, took bread and cheese from a stasis-locker, carved off two pieces, put one in the bowl, buttered the other, grated cheese on top of it, and clipped the bowl into a slot in the oven. He set the oven, pressed a sensor.
By the time he’d cut two wedges of cheese, the smell of the French onion soup filled the galley.
He returned to the master cabin for his book, went back to the galley. When the soup was ready he ate slowly, intent on his reading.
He cleaned his dishes, returned to the bridge and sat in front of the screen for the few minutes remaining. He showed no sign of impatience, his face quite expressionless.
The com burped static, and RECEIVING scrolled across it.
‘Wolfe,’ a neutral voice came.
‘Yes,’ Joshua said. ‘No picture?’
‘No picture.’
‘I’d appreciate some authentication, then.’
‘Golightly Seven Quill Quill.’
Wolfe’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
‘Didn’t know that was still current.’
‘It isn’t,’ the voice said. ‘We keep it active for a few old-timers we call on every now and then.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘An agent just got dead on an archeological dig. We don’t know if it was an accident or not.’
‘Where?’
‘One of the Al’ar pioneer worlds. A-6343-5.’
‘Name?’
‘Lorn Ware. She was going to Havelmar University. She’d already done some contract work before she went to school. Nothing serious, just the standard take a vacation among the stars and deliver a package sort of thing. She did all right, so we kept her on the possible list.
‘She initiated contact this time, and said she was having trouble paying tuition and did we have anything.
‘This dig on Five had just come up, and we like to keep track of anything that goes on around any of the Al’ar worlds, so we suggested she might want to apply for the job. Since it’s Federation funded, it was simple to make sure she got it.’
‘Does anybody on the expedition know she’s Intelligence?’
‘Negative. Not even the director or the Univee itself.’
‘You sure?’
‘Dammit, Wolfe, don’t you think we know how to run a clean op?’
‘No,’ Wolfe said. ‘I don’t.’
There was silence for a moment, then harsh laughter.
‘Allah’s teeth, but Cisco warned me you were a rough cob.’
‘How is he?’
‘Fine. Said to say he still thinks you’re a shit.’
‘Compliments flow when the elite meet,’ Wolfe said. ‘What’re you willing to pay for me to investigate?’
‘Don’t suppose I can call on your patriotism,’ the voice said.
Wolfe remained silent.
‘I understand you’ve still got some kind of reserve commission, ’ the voice tried next. ‘We could always recall you.’
‘You could always try.’
‘For the first time, I’m starting to agree with something Cisco thinks,’ the voice said. ‘All right. Federation Intelligence agrees to pay you whatever your standard per diem is, plus all expenses, plus thirty thousand credits when you turn in your report.’
‘That’s a little steep for something you think might be an accident.’
‘Wolfe,’ the voice said, ‘we treat anything that’s even vaguely connected to the Al’ar like it’s radioactive.
‘You know that.’
Twenty faces looked at Wolfe in various stages of bewilderment, sleepiness and vague anger.
‘Where’s Scholar Acosta?’ Wolfe asked.
‘Probably thinks this is beneath her,’ Raoul Northover said. Someone chuckled.
‘I’ll get her,’ Mikela Tregeagle said, and left the room.
‘I said before I wasn’t happy feeling like some sort of a policeman,’ Wolfe began. ‘I didn’t and don’t. But for all purposes, from now on you might as well consider me a Federation official, properly constituted, and -’
A scream from outside interrupted him.
Wolfe was the first into the corridor. The tube blaster was in his hand.
Tregeagle stood in the doorway to Acosta’s office, shaking, sobbing.
Joshua pulled her out of the way, looked in.
The shrike had impaled her last victim.
Scholar Toni Acosta was sprawled next to her desk, chair overturned beside her. Her face was purple, twisted, and Joshua smelt shit.
A triple-stranded wire was twisted deep into her neck.
‘That saved me some elaboration about my exact credentials, ’ Wolfe said flatly an hour later. ‘But you can assume they’re legitimate.’
Acosta’s body had been moved to a cold-locker, next to the store-room Cherney had been barricaded in, and the team reassembled in the messhall.
‘Scholar Acosta was murdered, of course,’ Wolfe went on. ‘As was Lorn Ware.
‘From here on,’ he said, ‘things are going to get very bumpy indeed.’
‘Sorry, Wolfe,’ Northover said, not sounding sorry at all. ‘But there’s no way the Ware kid could have been murdered.
‘Not unless you either think the Al’ar leave ghosts behind or that somebody’s figured out how to aim those goddamned backblasts.’
‘I’m not thinking either one,’ Wolfe said. ‘I know how Ware was killed, and you aren’t close.’
‘I should suppose that’s a relief,’ Northover said, ‘since I’ve been the man at the start switch on all the grid tests.’
‘Which means you’re alibied.’
‘So is everyone else,’ Northover said. ‘I hate to shatter your cleverness, Wolfe. But the test that killed Ware happened at 1700, exactly.’
‘So the report said.’
‘We’re a tiny team,’ Northover went on. ‘When anything important happens . . . and there’s nothing more important than trying to make that power grid work . . . everyone has a job. A job where he’s either in full vi
ew of somebody else, or else he’s monitoring instruments and recording the results.
‘That means every single one of us!
‘So if Lorn Ware was murdered . . . who did it?
‘And I’m not going to believe anything you come up with about two or more people working together, either.’
The wind was stronger when Wolfe grounded the gravlift beside the monument, keening sadly, and sending an occasional whisper of sand across the stone.
Northover and Wolfe got out of the lifter, and Wolfe took him to the monument.
‘You see that stake with the red handkerchief on it?’ Wolfe said. ‘That’s where Ware had her equipment set up.’
‘I saw it before,’ Northover said. ‘And I went over the site carefully.’
‘Not carefully enough,’ Wolfe said. ‘Or you would’ve noticed something. Take a good look at the monument. The blast tore hell out of it, right?’
‘Obviously,’ Northover said. ‘I do have eyes.’
‘Use them, then! Look at the edges of the stone, where the blast hit. See the angle? That angle goes straight out into the desert, away from the transmission tower!’
The wind was suddenly very loud to the bearded scientist.
‘Christ with a spanker,’ he said finally. ‘It sure as hell is. So the blast came . . .’
‘From out there. Don’t bother running a backplot,’ Wolfe said. ‘I already did. There’s a nice big rocky outcropping, perfect for landing a gravlifter on, and for hiding footprints.’
Northover swiveled, looked back, beyond the stake.
‘Sure,’ Wolfe said. ‘If you dug up sand from the impact area and analyzed it - assuming you’ve got the right instruments - I’ll bet you’ll find that “backblast” was nowhere near the wavelength the Al’ar used for their power-casts.’
Northover was looking back and forth.
‘Okay,’ he said finally. ‘I’ll buy into it. But how was it done? Some kind of robot device?’
